My roommate gives me water and medicine. Pills stop pain, but like all headaches, the space of the pain remains. I can feel the shape of it, sometimes curved or jagged, a strange pulsing edge.
I picked up my glasses, though I was dreaming, handed them to my roommate. I wanted to do something with them. They were for someone, I was certain. I tried to explain. He fiddles with my ankle, flips through channels and says my glasses will be fine.
They’re not fine, really. They’re old and misaligned, bent in a fight. We joked about it later, she said I had a hard head and checked my face for bruises. I laughed and spent the night reading about borderline personality disorder. I bought her a splint the next day and probably cigarettes.
I sleep.
The hotel is fire alarms and ejecting the homeless. The library today is a sweet old lady whose patron history says Obama is the Antichrist and the world will end soon. Job help. Children’s summer reading. Paying fines. Checking out DVDs almost as fast as they come in. People escape dead Midwest humidity. I help someone find a Bible. Another wants Ohio law information.
A frequent patron is turning thirteen. A beautiful and terrible age. She loves vampire books except Twilight and consumes these and other adult level books with ease. She says I look like her favorite character now that I’ve cut and dyed my hair. I want to do something for her birthday.
I am lazy tonight. I don’t feel like manually posting charges or sorting tickets. I need to update the overnight checklist in case my coworker and I lose it, walk away from the dark. There is a drifter in threadbare fatigues. He screams at guests: "You motherfucking bitches, I’ll blow this place up!"
I can document the incident. Nothing will happen.
Or, I can go to the library. If someone does that at my branch, everything will happen.
Can I live off a sixteen hour week? Does it even matter anymore?